Ziggy versus Chuck

In a brick and stone hacienda-style home poised on a slender hill between the venerable State of Mexico and the gargantuan (but separate) Mexico City live two beings that exemplify two important ends of the full, multi-dimensional, spectrum of Hotness: Ziggy and Chuck. Ziggy and Chuck, both Mexican by birth, are dogs. Ziggy is a 9-year-old female blue merle Border Collie and Chuck is a 2-year-old male golden Barbado de Tercera. For years I've been an ardent believer in Chuck and Ziggy's unique manifestations of Hotness—if you know me in person or on social media, I've most certainly subjected you to a stream of photos of the two for much longer than was necessary or initially promised. But though I have long known that these canines are unapologetically Hot, I didn't have the necessary vocabulary to explain why or how. After many months of interviews and careful observation, I've think finally understood. Ziggy and Chuck represent contrasting but equally important forms of Hotness—the carefree, loving, and playful, and the sleek, canny, and manipulative. Rather than try to explain what each of these approaches to Hotness means or how they manifest, let me attempt to show you by narrating their respective morning routines.

Chuck and Ziggy sleep upstairs in my parent's room. Despite many attempts over the years to train the dogs to sleep in the kitchen, my parents have recently accepted that "sleeping upstairs" is simply the way of the world. Ziggy and Chuck have at least two beds each, and three out of the total four beds are strategically placed next to the window, from which they keep a careful watch on the neighbourhood. The fourth bed is tucked into the corner of the room, between my mother's dresser and her bedside table—this is Ziggy's preferred sleeping location when she's feeling anxious.

Each morning, when Chuck rises from his deep, playful sleep, he jumps out of his doze and embarks on a short tour around the house to survey who's ears are readily available for licking. Though he has a range of interests, including sunshine, dirt, love, and running around my parents' small garden patch like a madman, Chuck is most passionate about licking ears. During this first lap around the house, he is looking for low hanging fruit: open doors and heavy heads at the edges of beds. Upon spotting an easy target, he'll quietly wander into the victim's room and alert you to his presence through a long-practiced sniff-and-lick technique crafted specifically for ears. He'll be quick and intentional; although he's usually looking for company, in the early morning, he only wants to ensure his people's ears are clean. Some days, however, the tour is unsuccessful and Chuck's cheerful gait is met by closed doors or sleeping bodies positioned in such a way that they require jumping on a bed. In these unfortunate scenarios, he'll trot back to his room and call for reinforcements in the form of his sister, Ziggy.

Ziggy's mornings consist of a game of manipulation and deceit to pursue a single-minded operation of securing the largest bone for breakfast. Frankly, this is her modus operandi through the entirety of her days, but her tactical and strategic behavior peaks in the morning hours. Although she's never quite as pleased as Chuck to part from the land of sleep, upon opening her eyes and realizing that Chuck is ready to start the morning festivities, she will pull herself out of bed, shake the doldrums of sleep off her now aging body, and wobble over with increasing energy to see if her mother is awake. Rather than blatantly wake her, Ziggy begins with a more gentle greeting, placing her nose as close as possible to the human nose, then taking a couple of quick, spirited sniffs. Ascertaining everything is in order, Ziggy prances off after Chuck, who typically waits for her outside of my closed bedroom door after concluding the first lap of wake up calls.

Early in her life, Ziggy learned that there is never too great an obstacle between her and her intentions. Uncomfortably brilliant, at about six or seven months old, she taught herself how to open and close doors by barging into them head-first. Fully aware of Chuck's silent request, with a swift movement, she pushes my bedroom door open for him. Chuck, now ready to engage wholeheartedly in the full family-wake-up routine, will launch himself onto my bed. Clumsily, he steps around and over my sleeping body until he's able to find my ears between bedcovers and hair. If asked to indulge in the moment and lie on the bed with me, perhaps savoring a few more minutes of sleep before the requirements of the day steal us away from sweet rest, he firmly refuses. He is the requirement of the day. Not content with a single face lick, he'll make sure I am thoroughly covered in slobber and then proceed to find other humans to love. After jumping off of my bed, he'll run down the stairs to check on my brother if he's home and then run through the same routine. Once he is satisfied with his work to wake his non-furry friends, Chuck bobbles back to one of his beds to watch as my mother gets herself ready for work.

Although to an untrained eye it may appear generous of Ziggy to open doors for Chuck, it's all part of a carefully considered routine. While Chuck goofs over the humans, Ziggy quietly stands at the door and surveys her housemates' morning reactions, as well as Chuck's technique, taking notes for improvement. But, more importantly, she encourages Chuck's games because the sooner the humans wake up, the sooner they will serve her breakfast. And since the goal of each morning is to secure The Bone, which is often served over breakfast, getting humans out of beds is a critical first step. She is, I believe, relieved that she has a trusty, energetic friend to do the hard work of waking for her.

Breakfast is typically served downstairs in the kitchen, and it consists of a rotation of a beef, sausage, or chicken over kibble. Some days, Chuck and Ziggy get beef shank with a bone, cooked on the stove top just before serving. Those are the best days. Ziggy and Chuck, however, are not lured by the tempting smells of breakfast rising through the house. Ziggy needs to appear aloof and indifferent—it's an important part of her image and game. Chuck, on the other hand, is just so profoundly excited about life that he has probably forgotten that breakfast is coming (which then means he's thrilled to see a bowl of food approach him, though he'll invariably forget about it after a couple of nibbles because some other exciting thing requires his attention). Regardless of the motivation behind their lack of attention, the result is the same: they need to be escorted down by either one of their furless housemates. My mother and I take turns when I am home. When it's my turn, because I know I'm just standing in for the group's true alpha, I muster all the enthusiasm I have in my little body, and try to make the journey down the stairs the most exciting thing to happen all day. Chuck loves it and prances like a rabbit behind me. Ziggy just sighs.

On both the human and canine side, breakfast is a game of skill. We humans like to pretend that we're trying to feed our furry friends a balanced and nutritious meal, but we know there's a game of cunning being played out in plain sight. Every day, we set their plates down in such a way that Ziggy and Chuck will each get their fair share, but Ziggy knows that in life, there's no such thing as fairness. Counter-intuitively, Ziggy will run out into the garden when the plates are first set out on the floor to take in the morning sun—she likes to give the impression that she isn't carefully monitoring the entire breakfast operation, and, rather, that she is comfortable giving Chuck first pick at a Bone. To be honest, after careful study, Ziggy isn't wrong to prioritize other needs over breakfast since, since Chuck is rarely intentional enough to grab the Most Desired Bone. But the move is undergirded by hope: when Chuck does accidentally pick The Bone, the game instantly becomes more interesting. So, while Ziggy takes care of other important morning business, Chuck will joyfully sniff around, take a couple of bites of his food, and then hop around one of the humans and check in on what they're doing, maybe carrying a bone in his mouth, usually carrying only morning cheer.

To close the morning festivities, Ziggy will creep into the kitchen, nose first, to survey what the humans deigned to serve her, and what choices Chuck made. If the right bone is waiting for her, she'll pick it right up out of her bowl and then make her way to the living room where she'll chew on just over a third of the bone before hiding it deep in my mother's flower beds, cloaking herself in dirt in the process. If Ziggy decides that Chuck took the bone she wanted, Ziggy will lie right before him and keep her trained eyes on his snout. Chuck, at some point, will playfully roll over on his back to expose his soft underside to attract human affection, leaving The Bone unattended. Ziggy will skillfully snip The Bone out from under him, carry it to the other side of the kitchen to chew on it for the better part of seven minutes, and then also deposit it in the flowerbeds. Sometimes Ziggy is forced to wrestle Chuck for The Bone, which is only fun for her if it happens to elicit frustrated pleas for cessation from the humans.

And it is so that Chuck and Ziggy greet a new day. In the two and six years that I have known them, respectively, they have yet to tire of their games. Their dedication to their craft—and their ability to remain committed to each of their respective roles and goals—is exemplary. I'm often overcome by an anxiety that I have to develop range; I live plagued by a fear that if I become too rigid, too much of a caricature of myself, I'll come off as uninteresting, unfeeling, un-living and maybe un-Hot. Chuck and Ziggy, however, teach us that sometimes, you just are who you are, and there's a beauty in learning who that is and leaning into what makes you most shiny (or juicy, as my clown friends like to say). Who cares if The Bone Operation is just a shtick—it is Ziggy's shtick, and it's just fun. There is a way to find freedom, expression, and Hints of Hotness, in constraint.

To close, a quick note on Ziggy and Chuck's preferred greeting styles to hammer home how much they truly can't help but be themselves. Much to my chagrin, I don't live full time with Chuck and Ziggy—they live in my parent's house in Mexico whereas I made a terrible choice and try to survive in New York. This means that I see the dogs once or twice a year. Upon arrival, often in the dead of night, Chuck and Ziggy run up the stairs to welcome me. Chuck greets me with Enthusiasm: paws waving in the air, an affectionate, grainy tongue sneaks into my ear, luscious blonde curls thickly coated in dirt dance around a thin, wiry body that jumps and jumps and jumps to find the best angle from which to honor my presence. Ziggy, on the other hand, is vengeful and uniquely talented at harbouring resentment. Although she will meet me at the door and wag her tail to the rhythm of the joy she feels from seeing me again, she'll quickly remember that I abandoned her and, more worryingly, that I haven't walked her in weeks. In the middle of Chuck's little performance, she'll trot away back to bed, without even suggesting that she might turn her head and look back at me. Ziggy will deign to show affection only after I have demonstrated enough remorse (expressed only in the vocabulary of treats and walks).

'Til next time.